IN ONE OF JOHN TAYLOR’S videos I spotted Snow White—that young doctor I met at the Taylor Institute—among the students in the lecture hall. Everyone else was furiously scribbling, taking notes, but not her. She simply sat there, her notebook open, her pen untouched beside it, her hands folded on top. Her eyes never left John Taylor. It could have been funny; instead it was creepy. Then there was one half second where he looked straight at her. His face remained expressionless, and he glanced away without haste though also without lingering. I thought so that’s the way it was. And I picked up the phone and called the clinic to invite Dr. Claire Fanning to stop by. I kept my voice casual when talking to her, but I didn’t feel that way. I knew I was on to something.
Snow White—Claire—said she couldn’t meet me until 9 PM, when she got off her shift. So here I am still at the station house at 9:15, hungry and cranky and yet not particularly eager to go home and see Peter, either.
I don’t like being alone here at night. Of course, I’m not completely alone. The night dispatchers are on duty in their office, but the door is closed, and they have their own isolated world that they reside in. At this time, the regular station house takes on an otherworldly feel, what with all the dark screens, the low lighting, the chairs left akimbo as if everyone had departed in a panicked stampede. Susan is usually the last out, but at 7:30 PM she sighed, packed her stuff, and left. I hate being at work this late. Actually, I’m unhappy to be most places after 9 PM, that’s why Peter and I are such homebodies. Around 8:30 I start looking for a pair of pajamas to put on.
This Claire, on the other hand, I doubt she ever sleeps. Despite telling me she couldn’t meet until after work, when she shows up, she is wearing workout clothes and has clearly been exercising, there is perspiration on her neck and arms.
“I thought I’d get in a run between the hospital and here,” she says, by way of explanation when she sees me eyeing her getup, but she’s not apologizing. In fact, it’s more of a boast. “I’m preparing for the Hawaiian Ironman, so I have to grab every opportunity I can to train.”
I find I’m in no mood to hear more about her exercise regime. “Please sit down, Dr. Fanning,” I say, and point to the seat next to my desk.
“Call me Claire,” she says.
I nod. “And Sam for me,” I say. Even though we met previously we shake hands and it feels oddly formal, like we are entering into some contract.
“I have something to tell you about John Taylor and myself,” she says, without preamble, and without waiting for me to ask anything. Despite the perspiration and her admission that she’d been “training,” she’s surprisingly not out of breath or showing any sign she has exerted herself.
“That I figured,” I say, and then I nod and cross my arms. Clearly, this Claire is not stupid, so she must see the look on my face. Because I’m sorry. When a young attractive female mentions she has something to say about an older male colleague in a position of power, you just know what’s coming. I didn’t even need to have seen the look exchanged in the video to realize that. I say to her, “You’re going to tell me you were sleeping with John Taylor.”
She doesn’t blink. “Yes,” she says.
We sit there looking at each other.
“Why did you wait this long to tell us?” I ask.
“I didn’t think it was relevant,” she said.
I don’t have to give this much thought. Her words hang between us, clearly false.
“What changed?” I ask.
“This did,” she says, and holds up the copy of the Chronicle with the results of the inquest declaring John Taylor a victim of foul play.
“But that article, and the media firestorm, happened weeks ago,” I say. “Why wait?”
“I wasn’t sure I wanted to be involved,” she says. “Precisely because of the . . . firestorm. I had to consider carefully what to do. I’d be involving myself in a mess that could impact my professional and personal life for years to come.” She says this very coolly, without showing any emotion. This doctor doesn’t have much of a bedside manner.
“Okay,” I say, but I still don’t uncross my arms. “So you finally decided it was your civic duty to talk to me. Fine. That means you believe that the fact you were sleeping with John Taylor was important in some way?”
“No,” she says, and shakes her head emphatically. Her thick black hair swings across her cheekbones. I feel a stab of envy of her beauty.
I lay my hands down on the table. “Hello? Isn’t that what you just said?”
“No, that’s what you said. There’s another reason you should want to talk to me.”
“What’s that?”
“I was John Taylor’s fiancée.”
Really, you could pick me up from the floor.
“What?” I say. “What?”
Claire nearly smiles, but composes her face. “Yes,” she says. “And I knew about all the others.”